Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/594

 578 ELIZABETH O. HOYT. [1850-60. For the rustle of harvest days is nigh, And the field of the world the least I will try. With a dauntless front, and nerve of steel, Shoulders to bear, but never feel ; With a breast-work never yielding, Arm of oak, and tooth of iron ; With a strength that never falters, With a purpose never alters — Hands off, and away. Ye men of but clay ! Who comes as I come to the bearded grain, That has waited me long, nor waited in vain ? Glistening dews are bright before me ; Pomp of clouds is floating o'er me, As I speed my tireless journey Where the acres lie unshorn, Will be cradled in my bosom Ere the night o'ertakes the morn — Ere the life-beat stop In the flower I crop, Or the frighted bird, so lately its guest, Comes back to look for its little nest. Then lead me forth where the fields are white. And come in your pride to the glorious sight. Where I, the Reaper, will prove my claim To a victor crown and a deathless name — Will prove my birth To the sons of earth, When the golden sheaves that follow my tread — With the blessing of millions — are bending with bread, ^^ As I go right on in my mission ^|Pme, Giving rest unto labor, and moments to time ! THE TOWN AND FARM. The Winter, clothed in vestal white, And jeweled robe severe. Still claims the norjth-west for her right, And, trembling, holds the year. 3 (^ a 1, uie The rich, tTie poor, and they Upon whose path a fortune frowns That has no brighter day, Are shivering all with dread and doubt. Because the o'erruling plan Another wisdom hath found out. Than that of man for man. Only the farmer, 'neath whose roof. By hardy toil up-raised, Is peace of mind with plenteous stores. Looks out, a " God be praised ! *' For well he knows the piercing cold. The wind, the hail, the frost, Will give him back a thousand fold. For all their bitter cost. Deep in the snow-protected soil Lies the abundant gift — Waits but the season and his toil, Its bounteous arms to lift. For him the dewy grasses lie Beneath the prairie snow, Will wave in beauty 'neath the sky. When gorgeous flowerets glow. For him the maize will lift its head, And silken in the sun; The golden grains will live, though dead. When Avinter's work is done. With beauty touched, and life instinct, The tender bud unfold, Till rosy children run to catch The apple, plump and gold.